Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (21 page)

He has even begun to receive confessions, as if he had ascended to a sort of food priesthood. “You don’t have to tell me if you like your Cheetos,” he said. “That’s between you and your cardiologist.”

—Emily Weinstein about Michael Pollan, “Pots and Pans, but Little Pain,”
New York Times

I woke as dawn broke, confused to find myself curled up on our couch, my neck cricked at an awkward angle, and both cats crying for breakfast. It took me a minute to remember that Miss Gloria was missing.

I leaped up, threw aside her hand-crocheted afghan, and roared into her bedroom. There were no signs of her having returned. I scrolled through my voice mail, e-mail, and text messages. No news there, either. I left a voice mail for Torrence, asking for an update, and texted him to be sure he paid attention, and then turned to the ugly task of calling my mother—Mom adored Miss Gloria, and vice versa. Even worse than informing Mom would be telling Miss Gloria’s children.

“I’ll help with that,” said my mother briskly after she’d absorbed the news of the night. “Wait a little bit in case she shows up. I’d hate to scare them for no reason. Sam and I will be right over.”

By the time I’d showered and dressed and started a pot of coffee, my mother and Sam had arrived at the boat. We hugged and cried a little, and I poured the coffee and we sat on the deck. “I feel so helpless,” I said, popping up to pace back and forth and back and forth across our little space. “I know it’s the right thing to stay here in case she calls, but I’m going crazy.”

“We could go nutso watching you,” Mom said, with a sympathetic smile. “We all feel the same way. Why don’t you head over to the Cuban Coffee Queen and get us something stronger than this,” she said, raising her coffee cup to show what she meant. “Sam and I can wait here in case there’s news of Gloria. Get us Key Wester sandwiches while you’re there. We need protein, and it doesn’t look like there’s much in your refrigerator.”

Which was a strange turn of events for me. Like Mom, I pride myself on always being prepared to whip up something delicious in times of trauma. But this week had gotten away from me. Sam insisted on pressing two twenty-dollar bills into my palm. I took the money because I could see it was the only way he could imagine being helpful.

I grabbed my helmet and trotted down the finger to my scooter, calling in the order for three large café con leches with one sugar, and three Key Westers, one with ham and two with bacon. Then I zipped across the island to the CCQ. In spite of the early hour, there was already a line. I paid my friend Josh at the counter and then took a seat to wait. Wes Singleton, the previous owner of Edel’s restaurant space, was also waiting for his order, smoking his usual cigarette.

“Busy day,” I said, moving to the bench across from him to avoid the fumes.

He grunted. “These damn tourist people oughta turn around and go the hell back home.” He dropped his lit cigarette, ground it into the bricks, and kicked it aside to join a growing pile of butts near the wall. As he yanked the packet of Pall Malls from his left back pocket to light up another, a ratty Santa hat fell out of the other side, the M
ADE IN
C
HINA
label exposed.

“Don’t you hate that?” I asked. “Why can’t we make things that sell at reasonable prices in our own country?”

He said nothing, just looked at me like I’d lost my mind. He looked a little more disheveled than he had even the day before, his eyes red rimmed as though he hadn’t slept, and four days’ worth of patchwork stubble on his chin. To be truthful, he looked as though he’d caught a wicked case of the mange. I pinched myself inwardly; chances were even though I’d showered, I didn’t look much better. Josh finally called my name from the take-out window, and I loaded the coffee and sandwiches into the basket of my scooter and buzzed back to the houseboat.

“You didn’t miss anything,” said Mom when I arrived. She took the bag and distributed the loot to Sam and me. “No calls, no nothing.”

“It just kills me to think about where she might be—who’s got her and whether she’s hurt.” I unwrapped my egg, bacon, and cheese sandwich, and took a big bite so I wouldn’t cry, distracting myself by savoring the crispy bacon and soft egg and melted cheese. “I’m going to have to call her family in a little while and tell them that there’s no news at all.”

“You can’t feel responsible,” said Mom, patting my back. Sam patted me from the other side. “You’re
supposed to be her friend and roommate, not her bodyguard.”

But I did feel responsible. And sick with guilt. And truly sad. Miss Gloria was like the grandmother I no longer had, plus a dear friend, plus a wise little Yoda/Buddha figure, all rolled up together in one adorable, funny, loving package.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mrs. Renhart called from the dock. “Permission to board your craft?”

I waved her forward and she picked up Schnootie and climbed onto our boat. As I began to explain that there was no news, and that the police would be canvassing more neighbors today to ask what they might have seen or heard, Evinrude strolled by, all attitude, with his tail switching and head held high. Schnootie started to bark like a maniac, struggling to get out of her mother’s arms. She leaped down and burst through our screen door, into the living room, and down the hall, after the cat.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Renhart. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her these days. I’m starting to call it the Santa syndrome. I finally figured out that she hates men with beards and hats.”

I gave a halfhearted laugh and followed her into our place. Neither of our cats were wearing Santa hats this morning—or ever—but Schnootie still had it in for them.

Just past the living room and the kitchen, Schnootie had planted herself in the hall leading to the back deck. The cats were long gone but she was still yapping hysterically.

“What is the matter with that animal?” I heard Sam mutter as I hurried toward the dog.

“She has a few issues left over from the animal shelter,” Mom said, following me down the hall. “She’s got
a good heart. We need to give her lots of time to get adjusted.”

Then I realized the dog was standing on the trapdoor that led to the mechanical crawl space underneath the kitchen. I’d never seen the space but remembered Miss Gloria explaining about the bilge pump and some other functions I hadn’t registered at the time.

“I hope we don’t have rats,” I said. But a horrible idea came to me, and based on the look on my mother’s face, she had thought of it as well. “It can’t be . . .”

I grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer next to the sink and tried to pry open the door. The knife blade snapped in half. Sam appeared behind my mother. Schnootie lunged at all of us, yipping with excitement.

“Could you get that damn dog out of here? Please,” he added with a tight smile in Mrs. Renhart’s direction. She grabbed her dog’s collar and dragged her away.

“Do you have a toolbox?” Sam asked me.

“Miss Gloria does.” I raced into her room and yanked open the closet door.

I returned in seconds with the box, and Sam rattled around until he found an enormous flat-head screwdriver and a hammer. He banged the screwdriver into the crack in the floor and pried the door open. We peered into the musty, dark space.

“Your bilge pump must be down here,” Sam said. “Not much call for it if the boat is staying put—and not sinking.”

I tapped on the flashlight app on my phone, illuminating a reach of blackness and highlighting something pink and fuzzy. My heart lurched: Miss Gloria’s missing bunny slipper. Then I saw the skating figurines on Miss Gloria’s pajamas, then the tape holding her hands and feet together and slapped over her mouth. Last I noticed her terrified eyes, and salty channels where her
tears had dried. More tears leaked down her face, collecting in her hair and her ears.

“Call the police,” Sam yelled over his shoulder to Mom, his voice as sharp as I’d ever heard it. “Tell them to send an ambulance.” He reached a hand down to Miss Gloria. “We’re coming,” he told her in a soft voice. “You’re going to be fine.” He turned to me. “If you could just lean down and try to loosen the tape. If it doesn’t come easily, we’ll have to wait. I’m afraid to move her until the paramedics arrive. If she’s broken anything, we could make things worse.”

Only minutes later, we heard the wail of sirens, then the pounding of boots on the dock. Two paramedics burst into the houseboat and instructed us to clear away. With tender expertise, they lifted her out of the bilge-pump compartment; cut the tape binding her hands, feet, and lips; and loaded her onto the stretcher.

“I’ll go with her,” Mom said. “You meet us at the hospital?”

His tyrannical, tantrum-throwing tendencies are encouraged; they make him all the more compelling to watch. Quietly, on another channel, Nigella the home cook lovingly frosts a cake for her child’s birthday, with a little swivel in her hips.

—
Charlotte Druckman,
Gastronomica

By the time I reached the hospital, which had become altogether too familiar lately, Miss Gloria had been seen in the emergency room and whisked into a regular patient room. She was hooked up to IVs and scary-looking, beeping monitors that reminded me of my stepbrother’s coma last spring. But my mother assured me she was sound asleep and not expected to stay longer than overnight.

“Fastest service I’ve ever seen,” said Mom. “Her vital signs are spectacular. But they thought it best to observe her for twenty-four hours just because of her age and her size and the general trauma of being taped up and stuffed in that hole.”

“Was she able to say who did it?” I asked, feeling
irate and sick to my stomach all at the same time. “Who would do such a thing to an old lady?”

“She wasn’t really in any shape to be interviewed, though she mumbled all the way to the hospital.” Mom shook her head. “‘At least I got the bum with the closest thing to pepper spray that we have in this house.’ That’s all I could make out.”

Slightly hysterical at the idea of poor Miss Gloria trying to defend herself with a tin of black pepper, I couldn’t help snorting with laughter. I quit laughing and told Sam and my mother the other not-so-good news. “Miss Gloria’s son is on the way down from Michigan. I know he’s going to move her away from Key West. I’m a terrible failure as a protector.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sam began.

“But it is my fault if the attacker meant to hurt me but got her instead,” I said. “And that’s the only logical conclusion to draw.”

“It could have been a random robbery,” Sam said. “Someone looking for drug money.”

“Why in the world would a robber stuff her into the bilge-pump cubby?”

“They’ll do anything to anyone who gets in their way, those druggies,” Mom said. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

I stayed around for another half hour until my mother insisted I was driving them crazy with my jiggling knees and texting fingers. “We’ll call you the minute she wakes up, I promise,” she said. “Why don’t you go back to the houseboat and clean up? Get things in order for when she comes home.”

“Don’t you have to work today?” I asked.

“I called Jennifer and explained what happened. She told me not to come back until the day after Christmas. So we’ll enjoy the holiday and then I’ll go back to
slaving in the kitchen. Should I roast turkey or beef for our Christmas dinner?”

“Both,” said Sam with a big grin. “I hope you invited Gloria’s family to stay with us. Let’s make a list for the grocery store. Sounds like we’re having a celebration!” He kissed my cheek and pushed me out of the room.

So I roared back to Tarpon Pier on my scooter and spent the better part of an hour straightening up, mopping the floor, making the beds, and feeding the cats. All the time fretting about who tried to hurt Miss Gloria and why. Then the idea of tracking down my homeless friend Tony came to me—maybe he would know something about the attack. He hears almost everything there is to hear on this island, though he’s not always willing to share.

I drove over to Rest Beach, where Tony and his gang often spend afternoons at picnic tables near the water. The wind had picked up enough that white caps dotted the ocean and the sand beach was deserted. Tony raised a hand in greeting as I approached the coconut palm–shaded table, but, honestly, he looked less than thrilled to see me.

“Could I speak to you alone for a minute?” I asked.

He stood up and shuffled behind me until we were out of earshot. “What did I do this time?”

“Not a thing. I’m just wondering—” I flashed a tremulous smile and explained what had happened to my roommate. “You hear things . . . and maybe someone might have bragged or slipped up or something.” I studied his face, which was utterly impassive. “Never mind—it was a long shot. I’m just feeling helpless. And guilty. I suspect she was hurt because of me, and that makes me feel just awful. Thanks, anyway.” I turned to go.

“Why do you think she was hurt because of you?” he asked.

I swiveled back. “You know how badly things are going at Edel’s Waugh’s restaurant. I’ve spent a fair amount of time with her lately. I’m just wondering whether someone thinks I saw something or I discovered something about the fire and the murder. Maybe one of her employees has it in for her. It sounds dumb, doesn’t it? But I know you were eating there for a while. Out in the alley, I mean,” I added, feeling ridiculous. He ate discarded leftovers in the alley; I ate with the
New York Times
food critic at the best seat in the house.

“I’m not seeing the connection,” he said.

I rolled up my sleeve and showed the residual bandage. “Someone shot at me. During the lighted boat parade. I don’t think the two events are coincidental. And now Miss Gloria.” Tears filled my eyes.

He nodded, then tapped a cigarette from a pack he fumbled out of his chest pocket, and then cupped his hands to light it. “They came after you and she got mixed up in it?”

“She tried to fight him by throwing black pepper in his eyes. And the schnauzer next door to us went crazy during the night. She hates men with beards and Santa hats. If only the neighbor had let her out—” I could feel my eyes widen to saucers as the pieces began to fit together: the cigarette butts in the alley near Juan Carlos’s pop-up memorial and at the Cuban Coffee Queen, the mangy beard, the Santa hat from China, the watery eyes. “Do you know Wes Singleton?”

Tony nodded, blew out a cloud of smoke. “He’s taken a big fall the past few years. And he has no idea that he’s responsible for where he’s landed. Don’t you even think of going after him by yourself. Call your pal Torrence.” And he stood there watching until I dialed.

When the lieutenant answered, I told him everything I suspected—that Wes blamed Edel for taking
over his lease. That somehow he was behind the mischief in the kitchen and maybe even the fire, though I wasn’t sure how. And that maybe he’d thought I was onto him and tried to take me out during the boat parade. And that perhaps he’d planned to finish me off on the houseboat, but Schnootie had rattled him, and Miss Gloria had fought him like a banty rooster.

“That’s a lot of maybes, but I’m going to send someone out to pick him up for questioning,” Torrence said. “I’m glad you called instead of trying to handle this yourself.”

Tony was grinning ear to ear when I hung up.

“I had no intention of trying to tackle him alone,” I said.

“Right,” Tony said, and ambled back to his friends at the picnic table.

I headed back to my scooter, feeling relieved. But one loose end still bothered me a lot. No way Wes could have gotten into the kitchen to substitute the oil and ruin that lovely vodka sauce. He would have stuck out like a greasy hamburger at a four-star restaurant. He had to have an accomplice inside. I phoned Edel and gave her an update on the events of the night before.

“You sure you don’t have a more personal connection with Wes?” I asked. “Can you think of anything that would have made him this angry at you?”

Her denial sounded absolutely sincere.

“Okay, another question: You and Ava Faulkner and Palamina Wells all worked together at
Brilliance Magazine
. But then Ava dropped off the masthead. What happened?” I asked.

After a few silent moments, she said, “Ava was accepting money from advertisers under the table. And then she pitched them as feature stories and wrote them up in glowing terms. It was bribery, plain and simple. And we’d all signed contracts stating we’d
have no contact with our advertisers because it would be construed as a conflict of interest. I tried talking to her about it first, but she blew me off. So I had no choice—I took the evidence to the editor-in-chief, who allowed Ava to resign. The understanding was that if she left without a fuss, he wouldn’t take it any further.”

“And she knew you turned her in?”

“She knew,” Edel said.

“Could she have gotten into your kitchen and made those switches?”

“I don’t see how I would have missed her,” Edel said. “Though she’s absolutely capable of paying someone else to do her mischief.”

“Like whom?”

“Glenn’s the one I’ve been hardest on,” she said with a sigh.

I got back on the bike and motored over to Mary Pat’s mother’s place in New Town. Mary Pat worked in the front line with all the players. Before I talked to the cops, I’d like to find out what she knew.

She came out of the house onto the sidewalk as soon as she saw me pull up. “I figured you’d be back.”

“Tell me what happened,” I said, leaning against her picket fence. Behind her, the giant, cartoonish Christmas balloons drooped on the stubble of grass in the yard. “Was Glenn Fredericks involved in sabotaging the kitchen?”

She shook her head, and I suddenly realized this was not Glenn’s story—it was hers. “I told you my husband left us,” she said, the expression in her eyes flat. “How much money do you think a line cook makes?” She smoothed a lock of hair into her ponytail. “And the cost of living on this island is horrendous.”

I said nothing.

“Singleton pitched it as a practical joke. For five
hundred bucks, all I had to do was make sure a few things went badly in the kitchen. I had no idea he’d push it so far.”

“And the fire?”

“I never, ever would have set the place on fire. I loved Juan Carlos. Loved him.” Her voice broke. “I’ll go to the cops and tell them what I know.” She started back to the house.

“Wait!” I called. “Was Wes working alone?”

She stared at me for a minute. “Tell them to talk to Ava Faulkner, too.”

When I got to the end of the block, I called Torrence again. “You were absolutely right,” he said, before I had a chance to speak. “Singleton squawked like a parrot as soon as we picked him up. He went to your houseboat last night—he says just to scare you. But Miss Gloria fought him and he panicked and taped her up. He claims he meant her no harm, but I doubt the judge will see it that way.”

“I figured out another piece of it,” I said. “One of Edel’s sous-chefs, Mary Pat Maloney, switched out the oil and salted the sauce. You probably want to talk to her yourself—in fact, she swears she’s coming down to the station right now. But she says she didn’t set the fire and I absolutely believe her.”

I waited a few minutes, holding my phone out from my ear, while Torrence ranted about my meddling.

When he seemed to be finished, I told him the rest. “And, by the way, she thinks my boss, Ava Faulkner, could be connected to this. And I believe that, too. The tarot card guy as much as told me to watch out for her, and so did the restaurant critic from the
Times
.” I cackled. “As if I needed help seeing that she was a witch.”

“We’re going to pick her up and bring her back to
the station for questioning,” he said. And after a beat: “And this once, if you want to listen in, you can.”

Fifteen minutes later, after promising to let them ask the questions, I was seated at a conference room table with Ava, Torrence, and Detective Bransford.

“Why is she here?” Ava asked, stabbing a finger in my direction.

Both men ignored her question.

“Edel Waugh deserved what she got,” she finally said. “She didn’t deserve to land on her feet here. My island. My space.”

“She deserved to have her restaurant set on fire?” Bransford asked. “Did Juan Carlos deserve to die?”

“I never suggested that dunce Singleton torch the place,” Ava said, slumping back in her chair. “You might have noticed that’s he’s carrying a grudge that’s made him a little crazy. He’s a regular nut job,” she added with a smirk.

I felt a flicker of rage catch fire in my stomach and push up to my throat. “What about Miss Gloria? She could have suffocated in that cubby.”

“He’s an idiot,” she said, flicking the air with her fingers. “I never asked him to do that, either. Or shoot you.” She smirked. “I might be blamed for bad judgment hiring him to do pranks in the kitchen. That’s it,” she said, smoothing an imaginary nick in one red-painted nail.

“That’s all for now, Hayley,” Torrence said gently. “We’ll take it from here.”

I started for the door, but then turned around to face her. “You should know: They don’t do manicures in the big house.”